Death of the Firstborn
by Morning-Tide
Summary: Rameses' wife, Nefertari awakes him on the night of the 10th plague to tell him of the death of his only son and firstborn. Told from Rameses' point of view, this story explores his reaction to both the death of his son and to Moses' arrival at the end. NO SLASH.


"Rameses!"

Someone shook my shoulders, pulling me out of my slumber.

"Wake up!"

Rubbing my eyes sleepily, I blearily caught the shadow of my wife, Nefertari's face. By the sound of her voice, she was near hysterical.

"Wake up! Our son! Oh Rameses!"

She dug her nails into my upper arms, leaning her head on my shoulder.

"Rameses! Oh our son! Rameses!"

I tried to sit up, even with the weight of my sobbing wife leaning on me. My breath felt strangely constricted, even as I kissed her on top of her head and wrapped an arm around her waist.

"What about our son?"

Nefertari lifted her head up from my shoulder, raising a hand to cup one side of my face.

"He's dead!" Nefertari wailed, hiccoughing through her tears.

I heard the words, but did not listen. "What? Nefertari you speak nonsense!"

I tore the sheet off me and stood up, quickly wrapping a kilt around my waist. I didn't want Nefertari to be right—she _couldn't_ be right. She had to be dreaming! Yet, even as I finished tying the kilt around my waist, Nefertari shakily stood up, only for her knees to give way.

"Nefertari!"

I hurried around the expansive bed, gently lifting her up from her knees, so she leaned up against me.

"Bring me to him."

"I…I can't…" Nefertari sniffled, her eyes closed, tears still wet on her cheeks, "I…it was one second he was sleeping, the next…there…there was…"

Cupping a hand under her chin, I lifted her heart-shaped face so she gazed up at me. Her eyes were deep pools of sorrow, deeper and darker still in the cold, white rays of moonlight.

"Tell me what happened!" I demanded.

Nefertari gulped, her eyes moist with unshed tears. "There…there was a strange light—in the sky—like a vapour—it was a mist, a ghost mist…"

"You're not making sense."

She began to tremble in my arms. "I…I saw it…so did one of the guards…one of them died, chased by this…this _thing._ His soul…I saw it fly from his mouth, one sigh, that's it. Then, I rushed to our son…the white mist caught up with me. He…" Nefertari took a shuddering breath. "Oh husband, the mist did the same to our son!"

I stalled a moment, trying to make sense of her strange words. It sounded like a dream.

"Are you sure you saw this, Nefertari?" I queried in the controlled, impassive tone of a king. "You speak of dream-like apparitions."

Nefertari shook her head. "I wasn't dreaming—I saw it; ask the guard who witnessed this too. The other guard…who had been with him…his body still lies where he fell."

Taking her by the shoulders, I sat her firmly on the bed. "Tell me more about this mist."

Nefertari buried her face in her hands. "Rameses…take my word for it. Our son is dead, his soul taken by the strange…death mist. Ask anyone in this palace who had a firstborn taken."

A terrible grief-stricken scream from outside followed her words. Alarmed, I rushed to the window, tearing aside a curtain, peering outside at a most terrible sight. Several women, illuminated by the harsh glare of the moon, stumbled outside their doors, tearing their hair and beating their breast. A few men carried limp children in their arms, tilting agonised faces to the heavens as if to ask Nut how this calamity came upon them. A chill ran down my back as I heard the same words wailed again and again:

"My firstborn!"

"Our first, finest child!"

"Our eldest! Why?"

"You see them too don't you?" said my wife's voice.

I flinched—Nefertari had joined my side without me noticing. I didn't answer; I didn't want to betray my horror. No king should have to see this, to feel this horrible lamentation of a stricken nation.

"I see them." I said flatly.

"That guard was firstborn, I know, and our son…" Nefertari's voice trailed away into sobs.

I recalled the words of Moses, the man who had brought all this on my land.

"Something even worse," he had warned, "Something even worse than before is coming! You bring this upon yourself, Rameses!"

Firstborn! His god wouldn't dare touch _my _firstborn child! He was my heir to the throne, the next morning and evening star! That Hebrew god wouldn't dare touch my nation's cherished children! If that Hebrew god of Moses had touched my son…no, surely the man I called brother would have asked for his nephew to be spared! If he had any shred of decency left in him, he surely would. Nefertari was wrong—no one would dare slay the son of the Morning and Evening Star! My beloved son would still be sleeping—not dead. Not gone to Osiris!

Turning sharply away from the window, I rushed past the moonlit bed and out the doors, heart thumping fast in my chest. Nefertari couldn't have seen right—our son had to be alive! A servant had the audacity to step out right into my path as I hared to the room where my son slept.

"OUT OF MY WAY!" I roared at the servant, who immediately leaped out of the way, trembling visibly.

"Your—Your Majesty?" he squeaked behind me.

I didn't pay any heed to him—all I could see was my son sleeping peacefully in the moonlight. His bed with its small, ivory headrest shining in the rays of Khonsu. He would snuffle quietly as unseen dreams tripped across his slumber. He would awake to my voice, ask what was going on—then I would embrace him tightly in relief.

No sooner had I reached his bedroom then I tore aside the linen curtain, going straight to the bed. Collapsing on my knees, out of breath, I took his shoulders in my hands, shaking them gently as if to rouse him from sleep. That didn't work. I called his name softly, but no response. My voice became more desperate until I shouted his name, moving a hand to his chest to feel for any heartbeat. There was no heartbeat. No rise and fall of his chest. My own chest fell, my heart tightening with the terrible truth: Nefertari had been right all along. The strange mist—whatever it was—_had_ taken my son. Thanks to the Hebrews and Moses, my son now lay dead, never to wake again. I wanted to break down, to sob, as if all the grief in my entire being would bring him back.

"Osiris help you…" I whispered, with no room in my heart other than for the grief of a father.

Standing up, I lifted him into my arms, walking out of the room, my steps strangely slow and deliberating. I walked as though I were twice my age, feeling near death myself. I held back unshed tears, not daring to look up, my eyes riveted on the still face of my son. I didn't lock eyes with anyone, for fear they should see the pharaoh's sorrow—the Morning and Evening Star never should have to sorrow for his heir. For the boy who would have succeeded him as the new king of the Two Lands of Egypt. Servants huddled, comforting each other in their grief, their frightened voices whispering in the moonlight. I hardly knew where I stepped, only knowing I had to prepare him for the embalming.

The moonlight seemed to guide me straight toward a small, raised table-platform in another part of the palace. My shoulders bowed, my back bent under the weight of grief. Still I refused to weep—my son would never have wanted to see me sad. I was his father, the one he looked up to, his idol, his example of how to rule as king when he was ready. But now no more. I had lost him for good.

My foot bumped against the edge of the small platform rising from the floor in the centre of the room. Numbly, I set my son with all the care and tenderness of a parent on the table. Behind me, I heard soft footsteps regularly interrupted by the clunk of a stick approaching me. It couldn't be anyone else. I refused to turn to acknowledge him, to look Moses in the face, knowing he had allowed his god to smite the firstborn including mine. _Mine_. Though his footsteps sounded louder behind me, he didn't say a word. I refused to turn around, lest my sorrow spilled over. No, I would not show my grief in front of whom I once called brother. He did not deserve to see my sorrow. He had allowed _my_ child to be slain. Yet, my voice trembled, betraying my raw sorrow.

"You…" I managed, my head bowed low, eyes closed, "…and your people…have my permission…to go."

I wanted him to leave, but his footsteps didn't echo on the floor. Instead, I felt him touch my shoulder with a hand. Was he trying to comfort me? He would not have that chance! How could I let a traitor have that pleasure? I roughly pulled out of his hand's touch, refusing his compassion—if it was even sincere at all.

"_Leave me!_" I commanded, hating that my voice still sounded more grieved than imperious.

Silence. Then—his footsteps fading away, slow and almost deliberate. Was he trying to share my grief too? How could he—he didn't even have a child! Not even a son by that wife of his, Tzipporah! How dare he try and comfort me!

How dare you touch me, Moses, whom I once called a brother, the man whom I'd trusted, whom I'd been overjoyed to see after thinking you dead in the desert. Consider yourself deserted, brother—you are no brother of mine. If you were a true brother, if you had cared for your nephew's life, you would have surely asked your god to spare his life. To spare Nefertari and me of the torturous grief no parent should have to feel. You are no better than Set, the man who tried to kill _his_ nephew, Horus. If only I could have interceded in time as Thoth did when he had helped Isis bring her son Horus back to health, expelling the snake's venom. Not all the gods in the pantheon can bring my boy back. You have betrayed me by not seeking to ask your god to spare my firstborn, nor the firstborns of my palace and nation. Did you know this would happen when you told me "something worse" was coming? Had you known all along that this would happen?

At last, I dare to turn my head, even as I cradle my son's covered head in my hands. I glare at his retreating form, daring him to turn and meet the rage barely contained behind my eyes. I would seek vengeance, as Horus did for his father Osiris. Only this would be a father whom sought revenge for his son.

If he thinks I would be the weak link, _he is wrong._ I am not done yet. I _will_ seek vengeance for my son's death. A father's vengeance. Not a king's. A father's. He is no brother of mine, he who I called brethren. My heart is hardened against him and his people. All I can see is the stillness of my son who is on his way to Osiris, and all I hear is the sound of Moses' slow pace still seeming to echo in the room, ponderously measured as he left my company for good.

_I am not done, Moses, _I railed silently, _You will see me again as a Pharaoh and grieving father. My vengeance will burn you like the solar disk of Ra at noon. I will not be the weak link. _

I bow my forehead to my son's, now allowing my tears to spill silently onto the linen cloth shrouding one who will never be by my throne again.


End file.
